The Cop and the Kid
by Pickwick12
Summary: This is an AU mashup of Sherlock and Gotham, in which Jim Gordon is John Watson, and Bruce Wayne is twelve-year-old Sherlock Holmes. You will see stories from Sherlock the show and the Holmes canon show up in sideways form here. I'm not entirely sure where this will end up, but it's a plot bunny that wouldn't die.
1. The Cop and the Kid

**Note: This is an AU mashup of Sherlock and Gotham, in which Jim Gordon is John Watson, and Bruce Wayne is twelve-year-old Sherlock Holmes. I got the idea from the fact that Ben McKenzie's portrayal of Gordon is just so much like John, and Bruce's intensity reminds me extremely of what Sherlock must have been like as a child. You will see shades of stories from Sherlock the show and the Holmes canon show up in sideways form here. I'm not entirely sure where this will end up, but it's a plot bunny that wouldn't die. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. **

**The Cop and the Kid**

"Who is this kid, Encyclopedia Brown?" Harvey's voice echoed through the precinct, and Jim looked up wearily from his stack of neverending paperwork.

"Nope, just a billionaire kid who lost his parents last week. I'm gonna go check on him. His butler asked me to stop over."

"His butler, seriously?" Harvey's eyebrow rose in disbelief.

"Rich people," his partner answered, shaking his head. "Don't ask me."

"But why are you taking police files with you to visit a twelve-year-old?" Bullock continued to pry.

"He's smart," Jim answered, "and totally obsessed with researching his parents' murder. I'm taking files of nonviolent crimes over to distract him."

"Whatever," Harvey said, turning back to his cheese Danish.

After a few more minutes of pencil-pushing, Gordon rose from his chair and buttoned his coat against the autumn chill. Truthfully, he wasn't much more convinced than Bullock about the validity of the strategy he was using with Bruce Wayne. He wasn't sure why he even had a strategy; it wasn't like Bruce belonged to him. But there had been something in those eyes, that first night, that had gripped him, had made him think of himself as a bewildered little boy. Of course, Bruce Wayne was nothing like him, not really.

He went to his car and turned on the radio, listening to Journey to calm his nerves. He hadn't been a nervous man until Afghanistan. He turned the dial up to drown out his thoughts and pulled out into the street. For a second, his hand instinctively went to his side, checking to make sure his gun was in its proper place. As always, it was.

* * *

><p>"You should learn to do a little picking up for yourself. I'm not your housekeeper, Master Bruce," said Alfred, but Bruce looked up from his perusal of his laptop screen long enough to see that his butler was nonetheless sorting and stacking the mess of papers he'd strewn across the dining table.<p>

"I'm busy," he said, clicking to another screen.

"Jim Gordon's coming over in a bit. I hope you'll be polite," returned Alfred warily.

Bruce didn't like to show his eagerness, but he couldn't help the excitement he felt at the prospect. "You—asked him to come here?"

"Yes," said the older man. "I thought it might get your mind off death for a few minutes."

"My mind is always on death," answered Bruce, not at all morosely. "But thank you. I don't mind him."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is just a very short intro to what will be a much longer story. Yes, Alfred is Mrs. Hudson. How in the world could I resist?**


	2. A Study in Maroon Part 1

**A Study in Maroon, Part 1**

Gordon arrived at Wayne Manor in mid-afternoon, when Alfred Pennyworth, the redoubtable butler, had told him the kid liked to take tea. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he very much hoped it didn't mean he was going to have to sip an insipid beverage from a china teacup. He was a coffee man.

"Come in, Detective," said Pennyworth, impeccably dressed, as usual, in a decorously striped tie and black waistcoat. He wondered how many identical outfits the man had. Surely the butler to the Wayne family didn't have to get the same one laundered very often.

He was shown into one of the seemingly endless rooms of the manor, a low-lighted sitting room that contained a small boy perched on a baroque-looking sofa, not that Gordon was at all sure about the finer points of furniture design history.

"Hi, Bruce," he said.

"Hello," said the dark-eyed child, looking up from his computer. "Alfred, bring the detective some coffee."

"Yes, Master Bruce," came the unflappable reply.

"How did you know I liked coffee?" asked the detective, curious in spite of himself. He sat down on a chair opposite the boy.

"I know a lot about you," said Bruce. "I know that you like coffee because I saw a few coffee grounds on your sleeve the night we met. I also know you were a solider. You fought in Afghanistan. And somebody you're really close to has a substance abuse problem."

The detective blinked, staring at the pint-sized wizard in front of him. "That's some good detective work," he said. "How did you do it?"

"I know you were a soldier because you have a bumper sticker on your car that represents your division. I didn't actually do the research to find out if it was Iraq or Afghanistan. I just picked one. I know about the addiction from your phone."

"Afghanistan is correct, but how does this tell you about substance abuse?" Gordon stared at his outdated flip phone and shook his head, trying to understand what secrets it could possibly hold.

"You're obviously not an alcoholic or drug addicted," said Bruce, "but look where the charger plugs in." The detective did so.

"See the scratches around the hole?" the boy continued. "Nobody does that when they're sober. Somebody with an addiction must have given you their phone."

"My brother," admitted Gordon, remembering the previous Christmas, when his drug addicted younger sibling had given him a six-year-old flip phone as a present.

Just then, Alfred shimmered into the room with a tray that held a coffee service and and plate of sandwiches. "I thought you might be hungry. If you can get Master Bruce to eat something, even better." The detective noticed the meaningful look that passed between butler and child, one that portended frustration on both sides.

"You're smart," said Gordon, taking a drink and feeling like he might develop his very own addiction—to the butler's excellent coffee. "I'm a detective, but I've never seen anybody make observations like that."

"You didn't mind?" asked Bruce.

"No," answered the cop. "Do people usually mind?"

"Yeah," the kid admitted. "They usually tell me to shut up."

Gordon nodded once. He didn't know what it was like to be a genius or a billionaire, but he knew very well what it was like to be the kid who was different, the one without a dad and with a chip on his shoulder. He held out the plate of sandwiches. "Want anything?"

Bruce shook his head. "Not hungry."

"Ok," said Gordon, "but i can't hand over the files I've brought to somebody who doesn't even have enough sense to eat when he's hungry." His eyes drilled the kid. He might not be a wizard at observation, but he wasn't an idiot. He saw pale cheeks and shaky hands.

The boy stared back coolly, not backing down. "I have a case to occupy me," he said. "I've been researching the downtown suicide cluster."

"That's a cheery thing to be focusing on," said Gordon drily, biting into an egg salad sandwich that rivaled his grandmother's recipe.

"Those people were murdered," said Bruce.

"No evidence of that," returned the detective calmly. "No reason to think it's anything but an unfortunate group of people who decided to take their own lives."

The boy's expression darkened. "But the last victim proves it, the guy with the maroon suitcase."

"What suitcase?" asked Gordon, puzzled.

"The one that obviously went with his shoes, wallet, and tie," said Bruce excitedly. "He was a news anchor, and if you watched him on TV, you know that he always matched everything. He even matched when he traveled. See?" The boy turned his computer around and showed the detective a slightly blurry paparazzi picture that showed the victim in an airport. As the boy had said, his tie and shoes matched the rolling suitcase by his feet.

"The police already figured out that the guy hadn't been home for at least two days. Why didn't you find his suitcase?" asked Bruce.

"There—was no suticase," Gordon replied.

Bruce shook his head emphatically. "There had to be a maroon suitcase. The killer must have taken it and then ditched it."

Gordon ate another sandwich and looked at the little boy for a long moment. He was beginning to believe him.

"All right, Bruce, I'll make a deal with you," he said. "If you eat every meal tonight and tomorrow, I'll go to the area where the body was found and look for the suitcase."

"I want to come," said the boy.

"No way," Gordon answered. "Absolutely not. That's a bad part of the city for armed cops, let alone a kid." The detective saw anger flash through Bruce's eyes at the word he'd used to describe him, but he didn't regret it. Someone needed to remind the boy that he was still a child.

"Do we have a deal?" He caught and held Bruce's gaze again. He saw the conflict between wanting to refuse and desperately wanting to know if his hypothesis were true flit across the child's face at lightning speed.

"Fine," said the boy, breaking eye contact and staring down at his hands.

Gordon held the plate out again. "Prove it, and I'll expect a text from Alfred after every meal, letting me know that you're holding up your end of the bargain."

Bruce took a sandwich and ate it quickly, obviously trying to look as indifferent to the nourishment as possible, but as sustenance met hunger, his need overtook his determination, and to the detective's satisfaction, he grabbed another sandwich immediately.

"Good," said Gordon. "You keep your promise, and I'll keep mine. See you later, kid." He stood up to leave, taking a moment to let his hand brush the boy's thin shoulder. He knew what it was like to lose the person whose touch matters the most.

Alfred showed him out with the same decorum as before, but this time, the older man took a moment to thank him, just before Gordon walked outside the walls of the manor. "I appreciate your attention to the boy, Detective."

"And I appreciate yours," he answered. "I figure the kid isn't big on appreciation yet. But he will be, some day, when he figures out how lucky he is."

Gordon walked back to his car, simultaneously glad to have the errand over with, but also intrigued by the lines of inquiry the boy's ideas had suggested. Truth be told, he had every intention of looking for the suitcase, whether Bruce Wayne chose to eat or not. But he wasn't going to tell that to the kid.


	3. A Study in Maroon Part 2

**A Study in Maroon, Part 2**

Bruce Wayne tried not to look like he was peering over Alfred's shoulder to make sure he sent the all-important text to Detective Gordon. He was gratified to see that the words, "He ate again," were summarily sent by the dutiful butler.

"Don't worry, Master Wayne, I haven't forgotten," said Pennyworth's East London accent.

"Thank you, Alfred," said Bruce, before adding, "Why should I care?"

"How should I know?" asked Alfred, "But you do."

Unable to think of a suitably withering response, Bruce went back to his perusal of the case files. He couldn't help fidgeting, hoping for a call that would let him know Gordon's search had been successful.

He was napping on the sofa when his phone finally vibrated, and he answered it as soon as he was coherent enough to see that Gordon's number had shown up on his touchscreen.

"Hi, Bruce," said the no-nonsense voice. "First off, have you really been eating, or did you threaten Alfred in some terrible way to get him to lie for you?" Bruce isn't always great with jokes, but he was pretty sure the detective was teasing him.

"I ate," he said coolly.

"Good," came the answer, "because I found a maroon suitcase."

"Can I see it?" asked Bruce, forgetting his pique because of his excitement.

"If you can convince Alfred to drive you down to the station, I'll let you have a look."

* * *

><p>The boy's adrenaline was in overdrive when he finally caught a glimpse of the maroon suitcase. All its contents were laid out on a table, labeled meticulously. But there was no cell phone. He peered around the precinct evidence locker, wondering if someone else had the object.<p>

"Detective Gordon?"

"Yeah?" said Jim, who was standing behind him next to Alfred.

"Where's his phone?"

"You're not the only one who's thought of that," the cop answered. "But we don't have it, and we have no way to trace it."

"Ok," said Bruce, thinking of a crime scene detail he'd noticed, but not wanting to share his ideas.

"Satisfied?" asked Gordon after another couple of minutes.

"Sure," the boy answered. "Thank you."

He left the precinct with Alfred by his side. What he didn't hear was Gordon mumbling to himself about something seeming a little off about a kid that determined being that quiet and compliant.

* * *

><p>As soon as The butler and his charge reached Wayne Manor, Bruce went back to his favorite table where his laptop lay, opening it to peer at the Lauriston Gardens crime scene photos he'd hacked. The news anchor had been the only victim to leave a message before dying, and it had been a point of interest, but no one had made any sense out of it.<p>

No one until Bruce Wayne. All things considered, he didn't think it took a genius to click into the "find my iPhone" system and try the password "Thomas," the word the man had failed to finish scratching on the floor before his demise, the name of his eldest son. The boy knew it was a long shot, but he had to try. To his surprise, a number and a location popped up immediately.

Bruce crept out of his favorite sitting room and tiptoed around the house to make sure Alfred wasn't nearby. As he approached the kitchen, he heard the sound of dishes being washed, something the butler inexplicably liked to do by hand, so he made his way back to his desk and punched a number into his phone.

"Where am I?"

"I'll come for you, Bruce Wayne," was the reply.

The boy's eyes widened, and for the first time since he'd started looking into the case, his resolve started to weaken. Should he call Gordon? Tell Alfred?

But he was determined. And he was reckless. Between the night of the shootings and the present day, he'd climbed to the edge of the roof six times, cut himself three times, burned himself once, and skipped as many meals as he could stand. Something in him didn't care all that much what happened to him, the last remnant of the Wayne legacy.

He went to the front vestibule and stared out the window, willing Alfred to keep being preoccupied. Within ten minutes, a taxicab pulled up, and as quietly as he could, he put on his favorite scarf and went outside.

"A cabdriver," he said, as he entered the car. "I should have figured it out. That's how you got them to trust you."

"Don't feel bad," answered the nondescript-looking elderly man in the driver's seat. "The cops didn't get it either. I'm not a killer, though, Bruce. I play a game. It's their choice."

Bruce felt a curious sense of calm. He was about to find out the truth, and that was what he found most important.


	4. A Study in Maroon Part 3

**A Study in Maroon, Part 3**

_Bruce is missing_.

As soon as the text message reached his phone, Jim Gordon dashed out of a briefing with the chief and most of the precinct. Bullock's "What the?" rang in his ears, but he didn't care. He reached Wayne Manor in record time, narrowly escaping at least three car accidents and forcing himself to ignore about ten people he wanted to pull over.

The butler, who was usually calm, looked nearly frantic as he let Gordon in. "I watch him—he was in here, looking at files, like always, and I went to the kitchen for fifteen minutes, and he was gone."

"It's not _your _fault," said Gordon quickly. "Kid's determined to put himself in danger. Do you have any idea where he went?"

"No," Alfred answers, "but there's something—a GPS thing on his laptop, like one of those programs that lets you find your phone if it's lost."

"Thank goodness for that," said Gordon wryly, taking his seat in front of Bruce's laptop. He saw the flashing arrow on the map of Gotham City stop and hover over the site of an abandoned university science lab, and his mind went into overdrive.

_Stupid, brilliant kid_, he thought.

"I'm going to get him," he said tersely. "Stay here in case he calls." The butler nodded, and Gordon was glad that at least one of the inhabitants of Wayne Manor took his orders seriously.

The detective floored it, even more than he had on his way to the Manor, fueled by desperation and more than a little bit of anger. He wanted to shake Bruce Wayne into next Tuesday.

He parked far away from the now-empty science building of Gotham Tech, putting his hand on his gun and approaching slowly. The only light on the property was in the building the GPS had indicated, and his pulse quickened as he crept through the night. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he made out two figures through the window: an old man and a little boy. There was something in the kid's hand, and he was about to ingest it.

Without a moment's hesitation, Gordon raised his gun and fired, watching with satisfaction as the old man slumped over and the child looked out with a shocked expression. He ran for the building, grabbing his phone to call for an ambulance.

Bruce met him at the door, wide-eyed and pale. The detective knelt down and put firm hands on both of the boy's shoulders, drilling him with his eyes. "I would ask what you're doing, but it's so incredibly stupid that I don't even know where you would start explaining it. Here's what I know: You figured out how to track the missing cell phone, then you got into a car with the murderer, and you were about to eat something he gave you. That sound about right?"

"He—he gave them a choice," said the kid, his voice shaky. "One of the pills was poison, and one wasn't. I thought I could beat him."

"Sounds like too many viewings of "The Princess Bride" to me," said Gordon. "What if both pills had been poisoned?" The little boy was blinking hard, and the policeman realized he was about to cry. "I saved your life," he said, and Bruce nodded, a single tear tracking its way down his face.

Gordon shook his head. Bruce was only a kid, after all, a stupid, brilliant kid. "Listen to me. If you _ever_ do something like this again, I will personally guarantee that Alfred never lets you out of his sight until _at least _your eighteenth birthday. Or I can arrange house arrest, if you'd rather."

The boy was crying in earnest now, and the detective wasn't made of stone. He took a Kleenex out of his pocket and wiped away Bruce's tears. He was surprised when the kid hugged him, hard.

"It's ok," he said. "You're ok."

* * *

><p>That night, Bruce knew he was in disgrace, because his butler brought his tea without any of the usual cookies that were his favorite.<p>

"I solved the case, Alfred," he said sharply. "I helped Detective Gordon." Part of him wanted to apologize; part of him couldn't bear the idea.

"At what cost?" asked the exasperated butler. "You almost got yourself killed. I've a mind to put a tracker on you, police order or no police order."

"You wouldn't dare," said Bruce.

"Don't try me," answered Alfred, "if you ever want to eat another iced biscuit in your lifetime."

Bruce grinned in spite of himself. He was glad to be alive.

* * *

><p>"The cabbie wasn't just in it for himself." Gordon spoke into an audio recorder, making a case record. "The last thing he said was that someone was paying him—he called him the Penguin."<p> 


	5. The Blind Cop Part 1

**The Blind Cop, Part 1**

Jim Gordon didn't visit Wayne Manor for over a week after the conclusion of the maroon case. He was busy with work, trying to keep from severing his tenuous connection with a fiancee who was becoming increasingly irritated with his reticence, and, frankly, not averse to putting Bruce Wayne in a crime-solving time out after the stunt he'd pulled. It was all well and good for Pennyworth to honor his promise to let the boy "go his own way," whatever that meant, but Gordon wasn't about to cooperate with the kid's unwillingness to follow orders. Still, the memory of the boy's face wore on him. He wasn't made of stone, and he hated the haunted look in the kid's eyes

That's why he finally made the trek back to the mansion, the passenger seat of his police cruiser filled with files of unsolved petty crimes. His original plan had been to distract Bruce with the cases, to give him something to focus on other than his parent's murder. He now wondered if Bruce might actually be able to help him close some of them. His powers of observation were, well, impressive to the point of uncanny. Gordon shook his head as he turned on the street that would take him to the Wayne Manor gates. The truth was, he _liked _the kid. He couldn't help it.

"Hello, Bruce." The boy was in his favorite room, as usual, seated at a large table, surrounded by files and with his laptop in front of him. Also as usual, he was dressed like a miniature mannequin from a men's store window.

"Good afternoon, Detective Gordon. Alfred, please bring coffee." The child's eyes darted toward his butler, who stood near the door.

"That's—ok," said Gordon quickly. "I just had lunch. How about you?" He looked meaningfully at the boy.

"I ate," Bruce answered quickly. The detective looked toward Alfred, who nodded.

"Good," Gordon intoned. "I've brought you some cases to look over."

"No need," said Bruce imperiously. "I've been looking into the suicide of the GC policeman."

_Of course_, Gordon thought. Of course the kid had a case of his own, not a nice, easy one like petty larceny. No, a grisly uptown suicide.

"Bruce, that was a suicide in a locked apartment. There's nothing to investigate," Gordon said patiently.

"You're wrong," answered the boy, shutting his laptop and staring at the detective. "Didn't you look at the crime scene photos?"

"Better than that, kid. I went to the scene."

"Then you should know he didn't shoot himself." Bruce turned his computer toward Gordon, showing him a close-up of the policeman's ashtray and TV remote.

"How did you even get these?" asked Gordon, giving the boy a sharp look.

Bruce met his gaze but flushed slightly. "It's not hard to get into the system."

"Also not legal," said Gordon. "Don't do it again."

"Ok," said Bruce, not looking at him. Gordon knew he was lying through his teeth. He decided then and there to ask Nygma to help IT make their system harder to hack.

"The point is," said the boy pedantically, "if you look at the photos, you can see that Office Lewis was left-handed. Left-handed people don't shoot themselves in the right side of the head."

It was simple, but it was compelling. The detective couldn't disagree. Just then, his phone rang, Bullock's ringtone. "Excuse me," he said, stepping out of the room.

"Another dead guy in a locked flat," said Bullock as soon as Gordon answered. "Journalist this time. Not a suicide."

"Neither was the other one," Gordon said.

"Figures," Harvey replied.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Gordon finished, hanging up.

When he returned to the dimly-lit sitting room, Bruce looked as quietly focused as ever. "I have to go," the detective said, feeling a little bit sad. There was something about seeing a kid that set on trying to be an adult that tugged at his heartstrings.

"Thank you for coming," said the kid quickly.

"I'll show you out," said Pennyworth.

On the way to his car, Gordon took a moment to question the butler. "How is he?"

"Eating more," answered Alfred. "I wish I could get his mind on something other than crime and corruption in Gotham."

The detective unlocked his car door. "I reckon the most important thing is being there for him."

He watched the butler walk back to the manor in his usual upright way, and he felt glad that he wasn't the one who had to go back in and try to raise Bruce Wayne.


	6. The Blind Cop Part 2

**The Blind Cop, Part II**

"Alfred, could we go to the Gotham Natural History Museum?" Bruce asked, the morning after Gordon's visit. He had a very specific reason for the request, but he didn't want Alfred, or anyone else, to know that reason.

"I suppose so, Master Bruce," his butler answered. The boy nodded, satisfied. He'd always enjoyed the museum, so wanting to go there raised little suspicion.

Within a couple of hours, the boy found himself at the huge front entrance of a place he'd loved to go with his father. He immediately realized that he'd failed to figure in the emotions that assaulted him as soon as he saw the place, but Alfred's hand on his shoulder steadied him just as he was afraid he might be losing his self-control.

Onward and forward; he had a mission.

"I'd like to see Miss Yao's tea demonstration, please," Bruce said to a man seated behind a large marble desk.

"I'm sorry," came the reply. "Miss Yao isn't here, but you're welcome to visit the exhibit." He pointed down a long, tiled hallway to the right.

"Since when are you interested in ancient Asian tea rituals?" asked the butler suspiciously, following Bruce down the hall like a faithful hound.

"It's a—recent area of curiosity," the boy answered. As recent as the day before, when he'd seen in a police report that Miss Yao was missing.

Thankfully, the exhibit was deserted when the two reached it, and the boy went around to each table and glass case, peering at the teapots they contained. "Look!" he finally said, louder than he intended, "this one's been used!"

"How can you tell?" asked Alfred skeptically.

"It looks different from the others," Bruce answered, "even though they're all from the same time and place."

In that moment, he felt two large hands turn him forcibly around to face Alfred's questioning gaze. "Master Bruce, tell me what this is really about, or we're going back to the Manor this instant."

"Fine, we can leave," answered the boy. "I need to call Detective Gordon anyway. There's no time to lose." He punched numbers into his cellular phone.

"What is it, Bruce?" asked the chronically-tired voice on the other end.

"It's Miss Yao, the missing historian from the museum. She's still there, somewhere in the building."

"All right," answered Gordon quickly. "If you're not at home, go there. I'll check out the museum, on your word, but I expect a full explanation of why the next time I see you."

"Understood," said Bruce. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>On their arrival back at the Manor, Alfred made egg salad sandwiches, one of Bruce's favorites. "All right," said the butler, setting the plate down next to him and taking a seat opposite his ward in the boy's favorite room, "I want a full explanation, now, or I'm going to eat every one of these sandwiches by myself."<p>

Bruce surveyed his guardian with amusement. He did not like being told what to do, but he liked someone caring what he did. "I don't have all the threads yet, but I saw a police report last night about the woman at the museum. I looked her up and realized she was responsible for the tea ceremony. I went there to see if I could figure anything out, and I realized she was still handling the teapots. That's it, honestly."

"Cheeky," said Alfred, shaking his head, but he handed over the plate. "I suppose I should be grateful that you actually deigned to involve Detective Gordon this time. But you should have told me from the beginning."

"It's easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission—Admiral Grace Hopper," the boy rejoined, pulling one from his arsenal of historical quotes.

"Easier for whom?" growled the butler. "If you weren't as thin as a rake already, I'd send you to bed without supper. Besides, how do you know I wouldn't have said yes? Gordon may be the detective, but I'm not dead. I like a spot of adventure now and then."

The boy munched contentedly on his second sandwich, smirking out the side of his mouth. "I know," he said.

Alfred shook his head and got up to return to the kitchen, but he turned back around for a moment. "It was a brave thing, lad, going back to the museum. It wasn't easy. I know that."

Bruce felt tears spring to his eyes, and he was glad Alfred had left the room and couldn't see them.


	7. The Blind Cop Part III

**The Blind Cop, Part III**

When all was said and done, Gordon had three solved murders and a smuggled jade antiquity on its way to the Smithsonian. He also knew that without the Wayne kid, it was very likely that he'd have three corpses and no answers.

Bruce was smart, no question about it. But he was reckless. Perhaps it was some kind of win that he hadn't actually put himself in the path of a murderer this time, but Jim wasn't pleased with the unauthorized museum trip. Nevertheless, the GCPD owed the boy, and after he'd finished filing the case paperwork, he made his way to the big, lonely house where the Wayne heir and his butler lived.

"Good afternoon, Detective." Pennyworth showed him in with a smile.

"Afternoon," he answered. "How's Bruce?"

"Hard to tell," Alfred replied, "but he's eating most of the time. Still has nightmares every night, though." Gordon wasn't surprised. He had nightmares too.

He found the boy in the same room as always, mired in a swamp of files and his computer. "Detective Gordon!" he said, as soon as he saw Jim. The cop took notice. It wasn't like Bruce Wayne to show that kind of eagerness. Maybe—he was actually forming some kind of bond with the kid.

"Hi, Bruce," he said. "I came to tell you what happened, but maybe you already know." He glanced pointedly in the direction of the computer.

"The GCPD system has a bunch of weird riddles to get into it now," answered Bruce quickly.

"So you do admit you were trying," Gordon pressed, "even after I told you not to."

Bruce flushed and went silent for a few seconds. "You're—you're not my father," he said, but it wasn't like other angry kids would have said it. It was tentative, like he was trying out rebellion to see if it suited him.

"Master Bruce!" Pennyworth was standing to the side of the room, and he sounded less than pleased.

"It's all right," said Jim, "I can handle it."

"You wouldn't have solved the case without me!" said the boy, still sounding far more keyed up than usual.

"Maybe not," Gordon agreed readily, "but that's irrelevant. It's illegal to hack the GCPD police site. Technically, I could take you in and book you for it." He had no intention of taking the boy in, but he'd always been good at bluffing, and apparently he still had the touch. Bruce looked slightly frightened and said nothing at all.

Jim took a small USB device out of his pocket. "Here, our IT guy made these at the precinct, but I found an extra one lying around. You're going to attach it to your computer, and it will email me a reading of your Internet activity every day." The child accepted the object but stared at it with distaste.

"Don't worry," said the cop. "I don't care what you do. I'll just be looking for signs that you hacked the site again. And don't try to get rid of it. I'll be able to tell." Bruce mouthed a curse word under his breath.

"Look," said Gordon, leaning forward, "I want you to trust me, but trust goes both ways. If I let you get away with this kind of crap, you wouldn't respect me, and this thing we have going—where you help me solve cases—has to have trust behind it, or it's not going to work."

"Just go away," said the boy sullenly.

"All right," said the detective, rising. "You have my number if you want to contact me. I'd still like an explanation of how you knew about the girl, but I can live without it."

* * *

><p>Bruce listened to the cop's footfall as it left the house, but he stayed seated, angry at Gordon and angry at himself for the tears that insisted on filling his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't know what had happened in the case. He'd read the full description of how the murderer had been Miss Yao's brother and that the victims were smugglers accused of stealing a priceless object. It was all simple, really.<p>

What ate at him was—well, he tried to tell himself he was angry at the cop for trying to control him, but really, he didn't like disappointing Jim Gordon. Who knew if the cop would ever let him work on cases again after the way he'd acted? He rubbed his hand across his eyes and blinked hard.

"Bad show, Old Son." Alfred came back into the house and sat down beside him, closer than usual. "I told Detective Gordon how you knew about Miss Yao in the museum. He said it was very clever of you."

"I don't care," said Bruce, his own tone giving lie to his words.

The butler reached out and put an arm around him, pulling him closer. "Well, I'm stuck with you, anyway. Doesn't matter how hard you try to get rid of me, I won't go anywhere." The words were strangely comforting, and the boy found himself smiling against his will.

"Alfred?" Bruce asked after a while, "do you think Detective Gordon would ever let me help any more?"

"Well," his butler answered, "doing what he asked would be a good start." He pointed to the device in the boy's hand.

Bruce sighed. "I wish I was a grownup," he mumbled.

"Not me," said Alfred, who still had a big arm wrapped around his shoulders. "I'd like you to stay a cheeky boy for a little while longer." Bruce let out a noise that sounded like a "hmmph," but he didn't try to get away.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Sorry for the long wait for this. From a story standpoint, it took me a while to decide how I wanted to frame this chapter, since it didn't really make logical sense for Bruce to be around for the action of the rest of the case.

From a personal standpoint, I've been under the weather and had to have unexpected surgery at the end of December. I'm feeling better and ready to move on to new cases!


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